


kiss me farewell, Judas

by rocoroloco (wafumayo)



Series: ShuAke Brainworms: Fate Edition [1]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fate/ Fusion, Holy Grail War (Fate), Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24985426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafumayo/pseuds/rocoroloco
Summary: “Akechi, do you know what to do if your magical path with your Servant ever gets disrupted?”Akechi glared at him. “My problem isn’t that my link with Berserker is gone, idiot,” he snapped.“Just answer the question.”An eye-roll. “Yes, of course I know what to do. Not that I ever would want to with him anyway.”“Do you think it would work between Masters?”Snapshots from the Tokyo Holy Grail War, wherein Akechi conspires to drag his corrupt priest of a father to hell while Akira does his best to navigate the intricacies of their shared past.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Series: ShuAke Brainworms: Fate Edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1808545
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50





	kiss me farewell, Judas

**Author's Note:**

> Do not @ me if there are mistakes in the Fate lore. I don't have a degree in Nasuverse, unfortunately. I will only write the parts I want to write, so while there is a detailed outline of the events of the Holy Grail War, they will only be referenced if I decide to dabble in this version of Fate AU in the future. This is not meant to be a complete Holy Grail War story.
> 
> I would like to thank [teq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theexistentiallyqueer/pseuds/theexistentiallyqueer) for helping me in the early planning stages of this. I probably wouldn't have had enough confidence to go through with writing this out if it weren't for them. Thank you very much!
> 
> Edit 07/02: Fixed missed typos and re-did the original formatting of the fic that must have been lost during the initial upload
> 
> Edit 07/08: Somehow fixing the aforementioned formatting destroyed the spacing of the fic.

“I don’t like it,” Morgana hissed into Akira’s ear for what seems like the twentieth time since they first left Yongen-Jaya. “We should’ve gone to Kanda to meet him.”

“Akechi didn’t want to meet there,” Akira whispered back as discreetly as he could as he walked down the street, keenly aware of the stares he was garnering. Akira did his best to look as inconspicuous and plain as possible, but even the most average looking of Joes would stand out if there was a black cat on his shoulder. “He worries that Shido has spies in the church at Kanda,” he continued.

Morgana’s whiskers twitched. “He worries too much,” he said, but he didn’t sound very certain at all. “The church is supposed to be neutral.” And wasn’t that the key wording: supposed to be.

Shido’s influence was inescapable, unless Akira took a plane back to England.

“He wants to discuss Shido, and he said he’s open to discussing the other Masters left in the war. It’ll be fine,” Akira said, hoping he sounded more reassuring and confident than he actually felt.

It must not have worked; Morgana’s tail lashed once, twice, hitting Akira on the cheek both times. “I don’t trust him,” he said, “after what he did to Lady Ann, and especially after Berserker tried to smash your head in last night.”

Ah, of course Morgana would still hold a grudge against Akechi for that. Any normal person would, Akira mused, but Akira could understand. It’s the middle of the Holy Grail War - it was foolish to think any holds would be barred. Ann had been deeply upset at the time, but she seemed to have recovered now, enough to give Akira a playful slap on the back, a “give Akechi hell for me,” and a wink. Ann wasn’t the best actress in the world, so she was probably genuine about having bounced back from her defeat. Now, about the attack on Akira...

Well, his Servant _is_ an Assassin for a reason, though his Assassin had been woefully unprepared to deal with Berserker’s ferocious attack. If Haru and Archer, along with Ryuji and Rider, had arrived even a minute later, both Akira and his Servant would have died.

The thing is, though, that Berserker’s attack had been so out of character for Akechi. It was so unlike him to send a Servant to deal with Akira without at least being there to deal the final blow and gloat over it, that Akira found it difficult to imagine Berserker was moving on Akechi’s orders. There was something fishy going on, even if Morgana claimed that Akira was just blinded by sentimentality and old memories. Akechi said he wanted to talk about Shido, and Akira agreed, wanting to discuss expanding their alliance to include the other Masters. But there’d be more than enough time to get to the bottom of Berserker’s behaviour.

The meeting place was a jazz bar **—** Jazz Jin **—** in Kichijoji. A quiet hole in the wall, but classy and refined. Exactly the sort of place that Akira would imagine to be Akechi Goro’s natural habitat.

“Ah,” the owner said, giving Akira a big smile. Behind his sunglasses and in the darkness of the bar, Akira couldn’t see his eyes, but he could tell from the genuine warmth emanating from the man’s open expression that they were friendly. “Akechi-kun’s already here. He’s been waiting for you since two o’clock.”

And there, in a small back room hidden away from the rest of the jazz bar, sat Akechi, his legs crossed under the small table and his arms crossed on top of it. His eyes were closed, seemingly deep in thought as the muffled alto of the jazz singer crooned in the background. Akira couldn’t see Berserker, but he knew that Akechi’s bestial Servant was lurking around somewhere, just like how he knew without a doubt that Assassin was hidden somewhere behind him. 

Akira hadn’t seen him since the official start of the Holy Grail War a mere four days ago, but Akechi still looked as devastatingly handsome as usual. Not a hair was out of place, and his skin smooth as a child’s, but Akira could see the spots where his concealer wasn’t enough to hide away the acne and blemishes. The dark circles under his eyes. He looked like he was a minute away from face-planting into the table and passing out. He was beautiful in a sickly way, like a rose on the edge of wilting. Akira couldn’t help but feel a twinge of unease alongside the usual desire he felt for Akechi. 

“You brought the cat?” Akechi said, managing to sound effortlessly bored yet highly judgemental at the same time. “I wanted to talk to you privately.”

Akira could feel the rippling of Morgana’s fur as he bristled at Akechi’s words, but he didn’t retaliate, to Akira’s surprise. His familiar probably suspected that Akechi had no qualms about unleashing Berserker in the middle of the afternoon if he was serious about enforcing the privacy of their discussion. Morgana leapt off Akira’s shoulder and landed lightly on the ground before padding towards the exit.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” he said over his shoulder. He shot Akechi a sharp warning look with his supernaturally blue eyes before he squeezed his way out through the partially open door. Akira went and pushed it completely closed. He didn’t even need to turn around to feel the eye roll that Akechi aimed at the cat’s back.

“Don’t worry about setting up a barrier,” Akechi said before Akira could even start debating with himself over it. “Muhen-san is on our side. He’s already dealt with it.”

Our side, as in he’s a mage as well? Or our side, as in part of the conspirational yet uncertain alliance Akira found himself entangled in with Akechi? There was no telling with him, and there was also no point in asking for clarification. Instead, Akira walked over to the table and sat down in the empty chair across from Akechi. There weren’t any drinks, but Akira didn’t walk into the jazz bar this night expecting any form of hospitality. Akechi opened his mouth to say something before a full-body shudder ran through his body.

Behind Akechi, Berserker had manifested himself, his eerie black-and-white form hovering behind his Master like a wraith. The large flaming sword **—** the Laevateinn **—** pointed menacingly at Akira before Berserker released his hold on the grip. The sword floated on an unspoken command, the tip of the blade facing the sky and Berserker’s grin seemed to stretch wider in barely concealed excitement. Akechi’s head shot up and he stared at Berserker with a look that Akira could only define as horrified betrayal.

“Berserker, stop!” Akechi commanded, but Berserker ignored him, swinging the flaming sword down without any hesitation towards Akira. Before the two mages could do anything, a black wing shot out from behind Akira and blocked the sword. The wind from the impact ruffled Akira’s bangs slightly and he turned to see Assassin, protectively shielding Akira from Berserker with his body.

Assassin laughed, his deep voice making his maniacal laughter sound sinisterly threatening. “You ready for round two?”

Berserker’s response was a feral snarl and he moved forward, his hand reaching out to grab the Laevateinn, no doubt preparing to press down on it to forcibly slice through Assassin’s wing.

“Berserker,” Akechi snapped, “back off.”

For what seemed like an eternity, time stood still. Neither Berserker nor Assassin moved, and, to Akira’s eyes, it seemed as if Berserker hadn’t even heard Akechi’s command. Which was especially strange with Berserker, who had always obeyed Akechi’s every word without fail, as if Berserker’s mind wasn’t constantly shrouded in a veil of insanity.

But finally, Berserker lifted the Laevateinn and backed off, never dissipating, but looming menacingly in the back. He floated off to the back of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed - the image of cool and relaxed. Akira’s seen Akechi do the exact same pose whenever they met up, Akechi perpetually at least thirty minutes early and Akira never earlier than “fashionably late.” He wondered if Loki’s reflection of Akechi’s own stance was proof of their close bond or sheer happenstance.

Knowing that only Akechi was able to communicate properly with Berserker, Akira didn’t bother lowering his voice. “Have you lost control of him?”

Akechi shook his head and sighed, rubbing at his temple with his left hand. Perhaps to combat the bitter cold of the late fall weather, Jazz Jin was extraordinarily warm, and Akechi, human underneath it all, had removed his leather gloves.

There was only one command seal left on the back of his left hand.

Akechi leaned backwards in the chair, balanced precariously on the back legs. He breathed out another long and large sigh, looking more annoyed than Akira's seen him in a while. "I haven't lost control of him," Akechi said. He met Akira’s eyes evenly. "He's just...the insanity of the Berserker class has been getting to him. I don't think that Lo - ...he was never well suited for this class."

Akira pointedly did not mention that Berserker brandishing the Laevanteinn like a cheerleader waving around a baton made it incredibly easy to guess at Berserker's true identity. He doubted that Akechi wanted to deal with that on top of whatever stressors he was carrying inside of him.

"That sounds an awful lot like you're losing control of him," Akira said instead.

"I'm not," Akechi countered immediately. He'd barely given Akira enough time to finish his last syllable before he sat up straight again, his rust-brown eyes narrowed scathingly at Akira as if Akira was the silly one. "It's temporary. I'll have to look into Berserker later. I'm not here to talk to you about him."

"That's too bad, because part of why I'm here is to discuss your Servant," Akira said. 

Akechi frowned. “Why? Shido’s more important.”

Akira shook his head. “I’m sorry, Akechi, but I can’t trust you until we figure out what’s going on with Berserker. There’s no way I’ll join you in anything as long as I’m not one hundred percent about you.”

It was strange, Akira’s relationship with Akechi, and it’s always been strange, ever since they both ran into each other (quite literally) at the Clock Tower in England. Akechi’s always been the best student, the most gifted. The student with one of the most prestigious bloodlines in the realm of Japanese mages, and always eager to put in extra work or extra time for professors if it meant that he could secure a better recommendation. He’d treated Akira and his friends like trash despite hanging out with them in his free time (not out of his free will, granted, but rather, dragged there and held in place by Akira and the Yoshizawa twins’ combined efforts). Yet, whenever Akira made a comment too biting or voiced doubts about Akechi’s capabilities and motivations, Akechi always reacted like he did so now.

Eyes wide with seeming disbelief, his mouth hanging slightly open like he couldn’t even rouse enough mental faculties to realize what he was doing, Akechi looked like the perfect stock image of the “shocked” emotion. He didn’t say anything **—** never could **—** and knowing that Akechi was the type of person to elucidate for hours and hours just for the pleasure of hearing his own voice made it even more palpable just how taken aback he always was. 

There was no point in continuing to sit there, waiting for Akechi to gather himself together. “We’re in the middle of the Holy Grail War,” Akira said, his voice gentler, “and even outside of it, Shido’s too dangerous a risk. I know you’re not voluntarily working with him, but I also want to believe that you didn’t send Berserker after us. We need to talk about your Servant now before we discuss what you called me here for. It’s a matter of security, Akechi. Nothing personal.” 

Akechi frowned. He’s always been stubborn. For a mage who prided himself on his understanding of science and technology, he had a huge blind spot when it came to matters concerning himself. 

“How can you not believe me?” Akira asked, finally letting his frustration from the past few days seep into his voice. “Berserker attacked me _just now_ and you weren’t able to stop him at all. You’re losing control of him, whether it’s due to a problem on your end or something to do with Shido, and we need to get to the bottom of the issue. I can’t work with you if Assassin and I have to look over our shoulders every once in a while, wondering if the next minute we’d see Berserker attacking us.”

Akechi angrily mussed up his hair and growled, “I can’t deal with Shido alone. I’m going to need your help, whether I like it or not.” His voice was so quiet that Akira doubted that Akechi had meant for him to hear it. He seemed like he was trying to convince himself more than anyone. His right hand moved from his lap to his chest, rubbing at it in a gesture so absent that Akira doubted he even realized what he was doing.

“Listen,” Akechi said, “trust me on this. If we deal with Shido, the problem with Berserker will be solved as well. The longer we put off killing Shido, the worse it’s going to be with him.” He turned his head a fraction to the side and, to Akira’s tired dismay, the black-and-white Servant had approached the table again. Thankfully, Laevateinn was nowhere to be found, but Berserker had shifted to hover uncomfortably close to Akechi’s shoulder. The Servant didn’t have any eyes, instead sporting a pair of striped horns where his eyes should be, but Akira could feel Berserker’s gaze on him anyway, heavy and filled with some sort of malicious intent. 

The most troubling thing about the entire situation wasn’t Berserker, though. As the supervisor of the Tokyo Holy Grail War and a high-ranking priest of the affluent St. Mary’s Cathedral, killing Shido seemed...outright blasphemous, at the very least. It certainly was courting a world of trouble. He’d thought that Akechi’s goal had been to neutralize Shido through excommunication, to force Shido to publicly admit to the mage world that he’d been accepting bribes and doing unsavoury favours to get to the position he was in now. Akechi had moved from public humiliation and onto murder in the span of four days.

“Killing him was never part of the plan,” Akira reminded him. 

“It is now,” Akechi hissed. He was still rubbing at his chest and his breathing was becoming more and more laboured. He somehow looked even sicker than when Akira first saw him, his face as pale as a ghost’s. It looked like he’d just finished running a marathon, and it was strange, of course, because if Muhen was correct, then Akechi’d been doing nothing except sitting in this back room for the past hour. Physical exertion wasn’t the issue, so magical fatigue? But Akechi wasn’t the one to have set up the barrier, and even if he did, a barrier for a space the size of the back room was small potatoes for Akechi. 

The only other possibility was Berserker, but Berserker’s one blow, not even enough to have seriously damaged Assassin, shouldn’t have tired out Akechi so much, when Akira’s heard about Akechi’s exploits on the second day of the War. How he’d stood there, looking as bored and unimpressed as ever, even while Berserker unleashed a merciless onslaught with his Laevanteinn until Ann’s Caster had disintegrated into dust. Ann had barely escaped with her life, teleported away by a last desperate spell from Caster as soon as she’d seen Akechi start to remove a gun from the inner pocket of his coat. 

Akira still wondered if Akechi had really intended to kill Ann, even after his Servant’s clear victory, or if it had been a show of intimidation.

“That was brutal,” Futaba had murmured, after reviewing the footage with Akira and Morgana. “His Servant’s a monster but that Akechi guy is one, too. Berserker requires an incredible amount of magical energy just to be sustained, but he was spamming that Noble Phantasm like crazy.”

“Not to mention that wasn’t a normal Servant either,” Morgana had said, his whiskers drooping. The Laevanteinn had been a dead giveaway, even if the actual look of the Servant itself hadn’t matched any records or myths. “The Norse god of mischief, Loki. We don’t know how Akechi managed to summon him, or how Loki became cast down to the Throne of Heroes, but one thing’s for sure: maintaining a divine Servant on top of him being a Berserker’s not something a normal mage can do. He’s probably one of the best mages in your generation, Akira.”

Yes, Akechi is an amazing mage, gifted with a seemingly endless reserve of magical energy. Unless he went so hard that he hasn’t had time to replenish? But every passing second with Berserker out seemed to make Akechi’s condition worsen in spades, far faster than normal, even if Akechi had started the day with less magic than usual. 

Akechi’s hand was no longer rubbing his chest, but was clutching his shirt instead. Even from across the table, Akira could see the minute trembling in his hand. “Assassin,” he commanded, and he felt Assassin manifest into being behind him, prepared to defend his Master with wing and knife should Berserker make any sudden movement. “Akechi, move your hand and take off your shirt.”

A strained chuckle. “That’s really tenth date material, Kurusu.”

“Lucky for you, I put out on the third date,” Akira joked back, though his face and voice were devoid of mirth. “And we’ve had more dates than we can remember, so I think it’s about time I see what’s under your shirt.”

Akira was prepared to argue with Akechi over this for hours, maybe even forcibly remove the shirt if Akechi continued to be stubborn. It was a testament less to their relationship and more to how Akechi was on the end of his rope when he simply sighed, a look of fatigued resignation crossing his face, before he shrugged off his fall jacket and unbuttoned his dress shirt.

When he’d imagined Akechi’s bare chest, Akira used to think it not dissimilar from a porcelain canvas, with smooth unmarred skin. Maybe a mole, at the most. Perfect in an airbrushed way like the rest of Akechi’s outward presentation.

What was never part of the picture was the large blood-red magical circle, on the left side of Akechi’s chest, pulsing ominously and steadily in the rhythm of a heartbeat. It was a complicated design, melding sigils from both Eastern and Western forms of magic, but Akira could never mistake the mark in the middle of the circle, above where Akechi’s heart is. A rugged, shaggy form, forming the distinct mark of a lion head. 

One of Shido’s.

“What is that?” Akira asked, horrified. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scale of the magical circle, centered over Akechi’s heart but encompassing the entirety of his upper torso. With the shirt still on, Akira couldn’t look to confirm, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the fiery outside edge of the circle reached Akechi’s back, its flames licking at his spine. 

“A little something Shido gave me,” Akechi said, confirming Akira’s deduction. His expression was sour, looking like he had just bitten into a lemon. “It’s just a seal of sorts. Nothing important.”

Akira impulsively leaned across the table, reaching out and tracing the letterings of the circle, trying to decipher it. He wasn’t the best when it came to breaking down and understanding others’ magical circles **—** that had always been Futaba and Morgana’s specialty **—** and he had half a mind to turn around and ask his familiar to help him out. Akechi flinched back, but with the back of the chair blocking any escape route, he wasn’t able to completely shake off Akira’s fingers. Now that Akira was directly touching Akechi, he was surprised to find that his skin was feverish hot; he didn’t have a good reference point to draw on or compare, but Akechi was burning so hot that he should probably be in a hospital rather than the drafty back room of a jazz bar. 

The circle itself burned like fire, and Akira sniffed the air discreetly. He’d half-expected to smell the stench of burning skin, but was greeted only with the faint smell of Akechi’s sandalwood cologne. Instead of voicing that, Akira said, “It doesn’t look like nothing important to me.”

Akechi hissed in annoyance, much like how a cat might react after accidentally falling into a pool of water. However, whatever he was about to say was bit off by a cough (which he disgustingly stifled with his bare hand) and the sound of a fearsome snarl. Berserker had summoned the Laevanteinn once more, his teeth bared in a rabid grin, circling around the table as if a different angle of attack would let him behead Akira this time. The juxtaposition between the gentle clops of hooves hitting polished wooden floor and the lion-like rumbling emanating ominously from Berserker’s throat would have been ridiculous in any other situation. 

Assassin crouched, prepared to leap, but Akira’s attention wasn’t on the two Servants. It was on Akechi’s chest, and where the tips of his fingers were still touching Akechi’s skin. Every movement Berserker made seemed to make the pulsing of the magic faster and more powerful, the circle growing brighter and hotter underneath. The more Berserker moved around, the worse Akechi seemed, and now that Akira was thinking about it, Akechi’s condition had nosedived sharply after Berserker’s attack, didn’t it? Just now, he’d taken a turn for the worse after Berserker called out his Noble Phantasm, right?

Could it be…

“Assassin,” Akira commanded, but before he could get the words out, Berserker crouched down like a cat ready to pounce and this time, his bloodthirsty grin made it clear he wouldn’t stop until the sword was red with fire and blood. Akechi curled in on himself, dislodging Akira’s hand from him as he hunched down in his chair, his forehead hitting the table. 

Akira swallowed nervously. He’s never seen Akechi look this sick before, this beaten down. It felt almost like when he’d seen his parents cry for the first time when he was a child. Parents weren’t supposed to cry, he’d thought at the time, full of the adolescent belief that mom and dad were supermen incarnate. Akechi Goro wasn’t ever supposed to look so pained.

He had to separate Akechi and Berserker, or at the very least, get Berserker to dematerialize again and give Akechi some breathing room, both figuratively and literally. But how? 

Akira’s sat on the knowledge of Berserker’s true identity, ever since Akechi sent him out to destroy Caster on the second day. He knew of the legend where the gods bound Loki to a rock using the entails of his son Narfi, where he was doomed to have his face dripped on by poison until Ragnarok. But he didn’t have time to leave Jazz Jin and search for the relic of Narfi, with Berserker bearing down on him and Akechi looking seconds away from losing consciousness.

 _You’re on the right track, Master,_ Assassin’s deep voice sounded in his head through their magical path. _I have an idea, though a gamble it might be._

 _Do it then,_ Akira thought back.

Assassin’s maniacal laugh, so similar to Akira’s own, echoed in his mind. _I’ll remind you for the last time that I’m an Assassin. The way you use me, it’s like you mistake me for a Servant from one of the Three Knights’ classes. If I can stop Berserker in his path now, will you grant me a day’s reprieve from combat to recuperate?_

 _Done_.

With a sharp snap of his fingers, Assassin enveloped himself with his wings, a black feathery cocoon in the middle of the room. When he opened them again after a dizzying pulse of magic was funneled from Akira towards his Servant, a completely different person stood where he’d been. Assassin **—** no, Arsene Lupin **—** had been known as a master of disguise, and this association granted him quite the extraordinary shapeshifting ability. He claimed his usual look was his ‘real’ form, but Akira had serious doubts about it considering the source material. Now, he took on the shape of a slim woman, looking to be over 180 cm from Akira’s rough estimate. Her long brown hair was tied in a loose half-up, and she was dressed in billowing dark green and pale yellow robes. When she turned her head, Akira could see that her eyes were a supernatural red. 

Arsene had took on the form of...a woman version of Akechi?

Akira wasn’t sure just what that was supposed to accomplish, but whatever Arsene did, it worked. Berserker froze in his path and it seemed that Akechi recognized Arsene’s chosen disguise; his face turned even paler and the shock was so strong that he managed to recuperate enough to lift his head up from the table, staring at Arsene. 

“Sigyn?”

The voice was guttural, sounding like syllables put through a voice distortion program several times through, but the name was unmistakeable. Akira didn’t know how Arsene had managed to figure out how Sigyn looked like considering Berserker **—** Loki **—** was nothing like any artistic rendition or depiction, but it worked. 

Arsene stepped forward, the clack of her heels reverbrating in the sudden silence that enveloped the room, her hand reaching out beseechingly towards the enemy Servant. “Loki, my love,” she said, her voice as soft and sweet as a bell, “come with me and let us look for our children.”

“Chil...dren?”

“Yes. Our sons. Oh, how they must be fighting again without us there to stop them. We must hurry, Loki.”

Loki shuddered and he moved jerkily towards Arsene. Akira held his breath, wondering if it was a trick, that Loki was approaching so that he could wrench Arsene’s head from his shoulders. Wondering if Akechi would intervene and command Loki to stay.

With one clawed hand, Loki rested his palm into Arsene’s, and Arsene’s warm smile turned into a dark smirk. In a rush of black feathers, and a sudden betrayed howl from Loki, the two were gone, spirited away to wherever Arsene imagined.

Akira breathed a deep sigh of relief, checking with his magical path to make sure that Arsene was still alive and well. His sigh was echoed by Akechi, though Akechi’s relief was more physical than anything. The distance between him and Berserker immediately improved his condition, though he didn’t seem up and ready to face the world just yet. He was still pale and sweaty, but he managed to hold himself up without the trusty jazz bar table there to bear the brunt of his weight.

“Assassin bought us some time so we can fix the issue,” Akira said, knowing that it was pointless. Akechi wasn’t an idiot. “He must have based Sigyn’s appearance off you and used some form of persuasion to get Berserker to believe in it.”

Akechi made an odd wheezing noise and Akira worried that he’d have to go find a bucket before he realized that the sound was tired laughter. “Berserker’s Magic Resistance is pathetically low thanks to his class. I’m not surprised your Assassin’s glamour worked.” He shook his head. “So you knew the whole time who my Servant is, huh?”

“Neither of you were being discreet,” Akira pointed out. “Most Masters and Servants take care to hide their Noble Phantasms, you know. The Laevanteinn was a dead giveaway.”

“You’re bluffing,” Akechi shot back immediately. “If we’re talking about Norse flaming swords, Surtr could have been a candidate.”

Akira shrugged. “Your Servant didn’t match the appearance of any Norse mythological figure, and there’s only one major player who could shapeshift himself into anything he wants. Truth be told, we took an educated guess.”

“‘We’? Who else knows my Servant’s identity?”

“Only Morgana,” Akira lied. He doubted that Akechi wanted to know Futaba knew, and that Ann, Haru, and Ryuji were all let in on it the day previous. “I thought you were just being confident, you know. That maybe you thought even if the whole world knew who your Servant is, you thought that you’d still be able to win the War.”

Akechi pointedly did not say anything, his eyes fixated on a particularly important spot on the ground. A faint pink dusted his cheeks.

Taking pity on him, Akira redirected the conversation away. “This is why I wanted to figure out what’s wrong with Berserker before forming the alliance with you. I want to take Shido down with you, trust me, but your Servant is out of **—** ”

“He’s not out of control,” Akechi interrupted, sounding like a harried mother repeating excuses for a disobedient teen. “He’s reacting to my emotions, trying to protect me. It’s not like he’s on a rampage or anything, believe it or not, massacring civilians on a bloodthirsty whim. Your brainless face and this stupid curse” **—** he furrowed his brow and clutched at his chest **—** “stress me out a little is all, and Berserker’s been acting out to try and relieve it. It’s not fantastic to have your magical energy constantly sucked up.”

Akira pointedly did not look at how Akechi hadn’t bothered with buttoning up his shirt again. He decided that counting the number of water stains in the ceiling would be a more interesting way to occupy his eyes. “The circle reacted every time Berserker did something.”

“Think of my magic flow as a river, and the magical circle is an inlet, directing that flow into some pool that Shido’s funneling it all away into,” Akechi explained, managing to give off the air of a haughty university lecturer even while he physically looked as if he was a foot in the grave already. “If there was a freak thunderstorm, and the water level of the river rose, the water in the inlet would naturally increase as well, yes? Shido’s curse is designed to absorb a set percentage of my magic at all times and if I’m using more magic of my own volition, such as when Loki swings around his Noble Phantasm, it makes sense that the amount of magic being pumped out of me would increase as well.”

“The more magic you use, the more magic is taken away,” Akira summarized for him, counting twenty water stains in total. He deemed himself calm enough to look back down at Akechi, whose lips were curled ever so slightly in response to Akira’s plebeian reply.

“Yes. To put it in layman’s terms, that is exactly what’s happening. And before you ask, no, I don’t know where Shido is storing my magical energy, if he’s even doing that and not absorbing it himself, that sick fuck.”

Akira wasn’t actually going to ask that next, though it was high on his list of concerns. (How long has Akechi been like this? Akechi’s magical reserve was near unquantifiable so him surviving for days wasn’t unbelievable, and judging by Akechi’s condition, Shido’s already taken enough to have killed more than one or two lesser mages. Just what was Shido planning to do with the stolen magic? Akira had a hard time believing Shido would let it all go to waste.)

No, Akira’s eyes and worries were focused on the boy in front of him, looking like he was seconds away from keeling over and never waking up. He grabbed Akechi’s hand **—** a move that would normally be met with a slap and a glare **—** and squeezed, trying to get more than a shaky breath in response. Akechi’s fingers tightened briefly around Akira’s before going slack again. 

What could he do? He’s heard of a mage family who was able to transfer magical energy into objects and use them as boosters or weapons. Something like that, if given to Akechi, could probably help him replenish some, but Akira had no idea who they were, where they lived, and whether or not they’d even help a couple of random mages. No use pursuing that thought any further. Although...

Transferring magical energy...With a magical path, he didn’t need to do anything special to upkeep Assassin, and he figured that Akechi was doing the same with Berserker, if Shido’s curse was able to tap directly into his magical path and circuits to feed off of. But he knew that if anything happened to somehow disrupt that path, there was a fairly barbaric way of giving Assassin enough magical energy to remain tethered to the mortal realm until the path could be re-established.

Both Akira and Akechi were Masters, so trying to link up their magical circuits in a way similar to the Master-Servant connection was ludicrous. Not impossible, maybe, considering the pretty crazy stuff Futaba could do, but Futaba wasn’t here and Akira didn’t think Akechi could remain conscious for the amount of time they’d need to cajole Futaba out of her room. No, what Akechi needed was more magical energy, enough to allow him some time before the curse started eating away at his life instead.

 _The more magical energy you use, the more is taken away_ , Akira had said, and Akechi had confirmed, so if Akira simply gave Akechi a bunch, that wouldn’t trigger the curse. Probably. Both of them were flying blind, and Akechi’s little explanation had drained him of so much energy that he had face-planted back down onto the table in a most uncomfortable-looking position. Akira wasn’t sure if he had fallen unconscious, or if he was enjoying the sensation of the cool wood on his feverish forehead, but he was going to be the one to have to take charge of the situation. Nothing new. 

“Akechi, I’m going to try something. If it works, it’ll buy us enough time to find a way to remove that curse. If it doesn’t...well, I don’t think any harm will come of it anyway.”

“What do you mean by ‘us’?” Akechi muttered, proving that he was still awake and somehow never kicked his bad habit of laser-focusing on an unimportant detail while ignoring the rest of Akira’s words.

“Us as in you and me,” Akira replied. Without giving Akechi any time to rebuff those words or think about it too much, he placed his hands on Akechi’s shoulders and gently but firmly pushed him so that he was sitting upright. “Come on, up and at ‘em.”

“I’m not a toddler,” Akechi snapped, though with significantly less bite and aggression than usual, “I can sit myself up in this stupid chair. I’ve been sitting here for hours thanks to you being late.”

“You told me to meet you at three,” Akira pointed out. “It’s not my fault you decided to arrive a whole hour earlier than the time _you_ set.”

Akechi scoffed but didn’t say anything. Akira ticked off a mental point for himself in his head before taking a deep fortifying breath. 

“Akechi, do you know what to do if your magical path with your Servant ever gets disrupted?”

Akechi glared at him. “My problem isn’t that my link with Berserker is gone, idiot,” he snapped. 

“Just answer the question.”

An eye-roll. “Yes, of course I know what to do. Not that I ever would want to with him anyway.”

“Do you think it would work between Masters?”

“Between Ma **—** ” Akechi’s eyes widened and he leaned back slightly in the chair, as if he expected Akira to lean forwards and smooch him on the lips right then and there. 

It wasn’t as if Akira had never thought about it, albeit in a much more romantic context. There had been something between the two of them during their time at the Clock Tower, and he knew that he wasn’t delusional, like Futaba and Ryuji so often liked to tell him. They had been painfully close to _something_ until Akechi had to return to Japan two years before Akira finished his time at the Clock Tower. 

When Akira imagined his first kiss with Akechi, he’d been painfully traditional about the whole thing. The setting was the Clock Tower at night, out in the courtyard under a quilt of stars. Maybe they’d stargaze, Akira pointing out constellations and making up wild stories about each of them. He’d point at the Big Dipper and call it Sojiro’s Ladle, that Sojiro became immortalized because his curry was divine. Akechi might laugh **—** a real one and not the fake chuckles he doled out like candy to his fanbase **—** and call Akira stupid or an imbecile or a million other affectionate insults. Akira would lean in, his eyes closing at the last second. Akechi, never one to back down from a perceived challenge, might meet him halfway. Akira had always imagined that the kiss would be like fireworks, that it would be fiery and hot, leaving his lips feeling tingly and numb for hours after.

And now, well, Akira will finally be able to see for himself if he’d really been imagining that spark. Maybe.

He tightened his grips on Akechi’s shoulders and leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Akechi’s, who was still staring at him as if he suddenly grew two extra heads. Akira moved in slowly, telegraphing his movements and giving Akechi ample time to push him away or pull back further. 

Akechi didn’t move, except to swallow. Akira’s eyes traced the up and down movement of the Adam’s apple.

“What’ll you do if it doesn’t work?” Akechi asked, his voice barely louder than a whisper. Akira was so close at this point that he could feel Akechi’s warm breath ghosting over his own lips. “Or worse, what if Masters _can_ exchange magical energy but my body rejects yours?”

Akira moved his left hand down from Akechi’s shoulder and touched Akechi’s chest, where he knew Shido’s cursed circle was. He could feel the heat, warmer than before, but Akechi didn’t seem as bothered as earlier, his condition reverted back to how it had been at the beginning of the rendezvous. Akechi’s heart was beating at what feels like thirty kilometres an hour, and Akira knew that if Akechi were to reach his own hand out and mirror Akira’s action, Akechi would feel the same thing in Akira. 

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Akira said, avoiding answering the question in a distinctly Akechi move. 

Akechi didn’t say anything, so Akira took that as a cue to start leaning in, still making sure he was going slow and steady, like he was approaching a wild animal. This close, Akira could confirm what he’d noticed earlier, that Akechi’s skin wasn’t as flawless as it had been back when they were students, young and dumb. There was a pale constellation of freckles over his nose **—** something Akira’d never noticed about Akechi before in all their time together. Even now, Akechi was still probably the most beautiful person Akira’s ever met, and that was saying a lot considering the crowd he ran with. It was hard to stare into Akechi’s sharp and judgmental russet gaze so Akira closed his eyes, hoping that Akechi didn’t take advantage of the broken eye contact to punch Akira in the nose and slip away. 

He heard Akechi shift in the seat, felt an increased pressure in his hands as Akechi moved forward, and then - 

Akira’s kissed a few girls (and some guys) during his life, and he could tell immediately Akechi has zero experience in this department. His lips were chapped but warm, and aside from pressing his mouth against Akira, he seemed to have no clue of what to do next, where to take it. Akira licked at Akechi’s lips and he felt Akechi open them to take a breath out of pure shock. Seizing the opportunity, he moved his tongue in and pressed it against Akechi’s. Underneath his hands, he could feel Akechi tense and under his tongue, he felt Akechi try to move away, but he pursued doggedly, trying to experience as much as he could in case Akechi never let Akira touch him again.

Sharp sudden pain erupted from Akira’s tongue and a familiar metallic taste filled his mouth alongside the unfamiliar-yet-enticing taste of _Goro_. Akechi had bit down on Akira’s tongue, though when Akira peeked with one eye, it seemed that it hadn’t been intentional. Akechi’s eyes were hidden behind his eyelids, his expression uncharacteristically nervous. 

The blood was perfect, actually. Akira closed his eyes again and forced his affectionate thoughts out of his mind. He envisioned a river of saliva and blood, imagining the river coursing from him into Akechi, mixing in with Akechi’s own energy before settling in a pool within his core. It was hard to keep up the image while Akira was kissing Akechi Goro, of all people, and Akira was starting to feel lightheaded before he realized that it wasn’t just from the lack of oxygen.

His magic was flowing into Akechi, and Akira wasn’t the best at sensing magical flow, but he could almost see the two rivers entwining into one. Akechi pressed harder, his tongue starting to probe inside Akira’s mouth to try and get more of it. Akira could even feel him leaning forward with his whole body, no longer content to be propped up by Akira’s hands.

The only sounds in the back room was their panting when they separated to take in some air, the wet noises as they met again. Akechi moaned softly when Akira swiped the roof of his mouth with his tongue, so he did it again to hear it once more. It was messier than Akira had imagined as a lovestruck student, the fireworks more a raging inferno in his gut. 

It was perfect, exceeding his expectations in almost every way.

Finally, after an eternity, Akira was so dizzy that he felt like the one who would face-plant into the table without Akechi’s support, and he pulled away, his interested dick twitching when Akechi let out a low whine at the lack of contact. Colour had returned to Akechi’s face, and he was sitting up in the chair properly, no longer propping himself up on his elbows or Akira’s hands. That ever-present smirk was gracing his swollen red lips again (Akira ran his thumb self-consciously over his own mouth and found them puffier and hotter than usual, like he’d eaten a habanero). Compared to the grimaces of discomfort that Akira had seen ever since he first walked into the jazz bar, it was like seeing the sun after nights of constant storms.

“How are you feeling?” Akira asked, running his tongue over his teeth to chase the last taste of blood and Akechi.

Akechi wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve because he is a rude boy with no consideration for others’ feelings. “Better,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised. “I can’t believe it worked.”

“Me too,” Akira admitted. 

Akechi met Akira’s eyes and his smirk shifted into something warmer and fonder. At least, before he snapped back to attention and reality. His gaze turned sharp once more, and the edges of his lips turned downwards into that familiar scowl. 

“I owe you one,” he said curtly, as if Akira had just lent him some money. He stood up, patted himself down, and grabbed his scarf from the back of the chair. “Muhen-san said he needs the back room by four and it’s five minutes to that. We didn’t end up discussing Shido at all today.” His last sentence was followed up by a pointed glare in Akira’s direction, as if Akira had been the one to derail the day’s goal by worrying about and helping Akechi. “Time’s running short. We have to meet up again soon.”

Akira stood up too, his eyes sweeping the table in case he forgot something even though he hadn’t taken anything out of his pockets the whole time. “You know I’m always free.”

“Yes,” Akechi sniffed, “I’m well aware that you’re nothing more than a mooch these days, living off of Sakura-san’s generosity.”

Akira shrugged. “Well, if you ever want to mooch some curry off him, you know where to go.”

Akechi averted his eyes and wrapped the scarf around his neck, burying his face into it so the bottom half of his face was hidden behind layers upon layers of red tartan. “Tell Sakura-san I’ll drop by soon.”

“Text me in advance so that I can tell him to prepare the sweet kind of curry.” 

He earned a sharp glare for that one.

“Hmph. I’ll see you, Kurusu. Don’t lose to anyone until I solve the problem with Berserker. I plan on taking you out of the War myself.”

Akira hesitated. “Are you planning on dealing with Shido yourself? I thought you wanted my help.”

“I’ll wait. I have the time now to figure something else out.” 

Akechi walked briskly towards the door, taking his signature gloves out of his jacket pocket and putting them onto his hands with an audible _snap_. He reached out for the doorknob, hesitated, and turned slightly. From the new angle, Akira could see that his eyes were fixed firmly on the door, but his words were directed towards him, voice much quieter than usual.

“Thank you for the magic. I’ll call you if I need some more?”

Akira bit back a smile. “Any time, Goro.”

Akechi’s face reddened so fast Akira half-worried that he would keel over right then and there. But Akechi managed to gather himself enough to snarl out a last “goodbye, _Akira_ ” before leaving the room, slamming the door behind him. 

The air pressure lightened around Akira and he took a deep breath, realizing that the door opening must have been the key to breaking Muhen’s barrier. He walked over and opened it, allowing Morgana to dart in, his fur and tail puffed up.

“Akira! What did he do to you?” His ever-faithful familiar demanded. “I just saw him marching out like he murdered a man. I thought he shot you or something.”

Akira smiled and crouched down, brushing Morgana’s fur down with his hand until Morgana shook him off. “It’s a long story.”

“What did he say to you about Shido?” Morgana asked. A valid question that Akira didn’t really have much of an answer to. 

“He wants to kill him, but that’s as far as I know,” Akira said before quickly explaining all that transpired in the room over the span of the past hour. He left out the kiss, though. Not because he thought Morgana would throw a fit over that (well, partially because of that) but because it didn’t feel like something he wanted to share.

It was his and Akechi’s secret.

“You’re not going to help him, are you?” Morgana exclaimed after Akira finished his tale. “That’s blasphemous! Treasonous, even? The church is supposed to be neutral. Killing Shido...He’s asking for the entire mage community to come down on his head. An army of executors, more likely!”

“Yeah,” Akira sighed. “Yeah, no, I’m not going to help him. I’ll stop him.”

But when Akira thought back to Akechi’s bloodless face, the suffering in his voice and body as Shido’s curse ran its course and ravaged his magical path, he couldn’t help but think and wonder.

His Servant was an Assassin, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This started from just "haha, I want them to kiss" and then rapidly grew out of my control. My Twitter is [wafumayo](http://twitter.com/wafumayo)


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